The Odd Case of Emma Gitali
by Colours Doyle
Summary: What happens when the cunning and masterfuly shrewd mind of Sherlock Holmes collides with the artistic, sporadic, and clever spirit of Emma Gitali? Possibly Sherlock/OC, we'll see.
1. Chapter One

**Bonjour, this is my first Sherlock Holmes story and was inspired to write this after I saw the movie and I must say it was absolutely fantastic with a dollop of wonderful. I loved it. And I hope you love this story.**

**This is also posted on my quizilla account so don't come barkin' to me about it if you recognise it. ;P**

**_Et nous commencerons._**

* * *

"Holmes?" The anal doctor questioned, observing the scruffy man who stared at a clear jar filled with flies, picking incessantly at an old violin, who was indeed this 'Holmes' he questions. "What, exactly are you doing?"

"Consider this, Watson," he informed the doctor, without looking from the bottle, "I play chromatics..." He starts playing a chromatic scale, picking at the thin strings and the flies completely ignore him, "and nothing. However, if I play a sixth chord..." As his fingers move in changed chords, the flies start moving in circles, "they fly in counterclockwise concentric circles. I have created order out of chaos with music."

Watson stands amazed, "How did you do that?"

"Trial and error, Watson. I've been at it for six hours, in fact!" There is a pause for a moment when Watson walks over to the jar, placing his hand on the lid.

"And what happens when I do this?" And he lifts off the lid, releasing the flies. Holmes glared at him in return, while Watson just smirked his little smirk. "We have a new neighbor, Holmes."

"What?" stood and placed his violin on the desk and walked over the window, his hands behind his back.

"Ms. Hudson informed me as I'd gotten here that there should be new vacant in the apartment next to ours." Watson leaned on the desk and watched Holmes tap his chin with his forefinger like he always did when he thought.

"New vacant?" He repeated.

"Yes, in 221A. I suppose they should be moving their things in within the hour. I wonder if they're friendly."

Holmes thought longer, then turned to face Watson, "How...peculiar." He looked at the unshaven man with curiosity, "The last time someone inhabited that apartment was ten years ago, no one has ever been there since, I wonder what has prone whoever to move in." He walked back over to the window and looked down at the street below as a buggy pulled up the curb with boxes and boxes of luggage stacked on top.

* * *

As the cariage pulled up to the curb, a woman looked out the window at the tall building that stood on Baker street. She gazed with her cool green eyes, memories of her past behind those mirrors of vision. She stepped out slowly, squinting in the sunlight. Reaching back into the carrage, she pulled out a notebook and sketching pencils.

Her name is Emma Gitali, or otherwise known as Emma Livingston. Now, 27 and years of knowledge under her belt, she's returned to London after ten years of travel. She visited the most and better part of Asia and witnessed three months of the downfall of Singapore, though found her stay in India to be the most rewarding. Emma had been a traveling artist and had finally raised enough money to move back to London and inhabit the apartment she grew up in. And she just couldn't wait to see her mother and father again, it has been too long since she's seen their loving faces.

Emma walked up to the front door, turned the door handle, and smiled; mother never locked the door. Small steps into the house she once remembered as the house of so much was...empty.

"Mum? Dad? Hello?" She looked around while she stood frozen at the door, and nothing but an eerie silence greeted her.

She sighed, set her bag down, "_Welcome home, Emma."_

A man's voice erupted behind her.

"Miss. Gitali, where do you want these?" One of the movers came up and asked her, gesturing towards a large stack of blank, sheer canvases.

"Oh, there should be a room on the left, just follow the stairs and its the biggest room on the second level, put them there. Thank you." She smiled and watched as the four movers brought all her belongings into the home she always knew.

As she sat on the steps several hours later, sketching the busy street in front of her she heard a door open and close, heels on steps, and saw two feet standing of to the side of her. She looked up and saw an aging woman with a smile on her face.

"Oh, Emma, it's so good to see you." She stood and hugging the lady lovingly, which she returned. "How were your travels?"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I cannot begin to explain how magnificent the world outside of England was. Though India was stollen a piece of my heart, and I believe a little bit of myself will always stay there." Emma smiled, thinking of those lovely nights in India she spent.

"I can imagine," Mrs. Hudson made a gesture towards her attire, thick Indian culture woven into every tread of her dress, greens and golds and yellows and reds, it's not hard to guess where she'd been for the last ten or so years.

Emma laughed, "But it is so great to be back in London, to be back on Baker street." Mrs. Hudson smiled and rubbed Emma's arm.

"Well, it's a pleasure to have you back. I hope you've been getting settled in-"

BANG BANG BANG!

Emma's head shot up to the sound of a gun being shot in the apartment overhead.

"Oh, good god in heaven," She rubbed her palm on her forehead, "He's at it again..." Even though Emma gave her a questioning look, Mrs. Hudson never minded it, "I must go, but it's good to have you back, and I expect first months payment within this week."

Emma nodded, "You'll have it soon." She said as she watched Mrs. Hudson rush back to 221B, and went back to her sketching.


	2. Chapter Two

Night was always a strange thing for Sherlock Holmes, he felt the night had it in for him, the night was mysterious, and he loved it. But this particular night, as Sherlock practiced his violin in the candle light he had a sudden stop in measures from an unusual sound that had not come from his violin.

Coming from the corner of the study, a small, soft weeping sounded in the silence. Holmes looked around in confusion, and then set his violin down and walked over to the sound. It was coming from a vent diagonal to the window, that he guessed connected to the apartment adjacent to his.

The overwhelming curiosity flooded him as to who this weeping girl was. Sherlock wanted to say something, but for the love of all things good he didn't. He didn't know who she was, or even what to say. So he sat, and listened to the sobbing of the girl for at least an hour before he finally fell asleep with his head laying on the vent, his body huddled in the corner of the room.

* * *

Emma sat at the foot of her bed, hands clutched around her body, looking into space. Her eyes never blinked. Boxes all around her, littering the floor and stacked to the sky. She'd have to get unpacking soon, she couldn't live with with all these bare walls and bare rooms with no colour.

Emma stood, walking over to the box that sat so quaintly in front of her. A rather large box filled with items of her past.

She opened it slowly, staring down at the first thing on top. A crafted orange jewelry box her beautiful daughter had made her when she was five. It was made of stiff board, cloth, and a plethora of sparkles and sequins. She always loved colours. And right next to the box was a small photograph, framed in glossy bamboo sticks. Emma's eyes teared up when she thought of her little girl. Maribelle. The most beautiful child she'd ever seen. Brown locks framed her round face, just like her mothers, and big dark brown eyes. Maribelle had gotten the love of creation from her mother as well, the box that sat in front of Emma holding little treasures she and Maribelle had made together. Ceramic elephants, a drawing of an owl, a stuffed rabbit, and a rain stick Maribelle always loved to play with and coincidentally it would always rain after every time.

Emma smiled, remembering. And under it all was a lone picture frame and a few sketches and paintings of the man that brought happiness and tears to her eyes and to her cheeks.

"Thaad..." Emma sat cross-legged on the floor, frame in her hands tightly, as if it'd fall to the depths of an ocean if she dropped it. She closed her eyes, imagining...

-The hot sun beating down on the town of Nillear, though the winds blew, cooling the air and blowing the wind-chimes made of stones and crystal and broken pottery all around the small village. And Thaad stood there, his dark skin and even darker eyes looking out to the land that goes on for miles and miles. The wind's forceful gust blew his short dreadlocks left and right.

He suddenly turned at a sound of someone approaching. His lips formed a smile, showing his perfectly straight, glowing white teeth. He walked over the unknown person, a woman. He took her face in both his hands.

"I love you, Emma."-

Emma sobbed quietly, clutching the picture frame in her hands. She missed him so dearly. His warm arms holding her as they would watch the sun rise, beautiful reds, oranges, yellows, and pinks reflect in their eyes.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks. She shouldn't cry. She should be grateful that it had happened. But as much as she tried not to let the tears escape, they fell freely down her rosy cheeks and she held in soft sobs. Emma stood, still with the frame in her hands, her knuckles white. She walked out her room and down the stairs and set the frame up on a table in the hall way. Her fingers lingered on the face of the man she once knew. Knew so well, yet didn't know at all.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, wake up, it's near noon and you haven't had your breakfast yet." And as he did every day for the next month and a half, staying up, listening to the soft crying of the girl next door. The wonder and curiosity over-comes him like no other, though he tends to ignore the urge to step right outside and over to the apartment next door, he doesn't need a distraction such as, thoroughly distracting himself through cases. Though one day, a different change had occurred.

. . . . .

As Sherlock put the old violin to the nook of his neck and played an unknown scale, unknown even to him, an obnoxious knocking at the door pulled him out of his trance. He figured Mrs. Hudson would answer the door, but after a minute and the knocking continued. He sighed heavily, and stood.

When he reached the front door, he answered firmly, "What is it?" And he saw a woman standing there, younger than him, probably the same age as Watson, with her hands behind her back. Her hair was a certain shade of brown he'd never seen before, and green eyes like leaves. Her wardrobe was that of nothing he'd seen in London, only described in books; a black Cheongsam with unique stitching's of Chinese landscapes in rich colours. It took only seconds to memorize her face, he repeated, "Yes?"

She smiled, though her teeth were not the perfect shade of white, they were aligned perfectly, unlike most men and women in England, "Oh, let me introduce myself," she took one hand from behind her back, extending it out to Sherlock, "I'm Emma Gitali, I live in 221A, I just moved in about a month ago, I'm sorry it's taken me this long to take action on introducing." Her accent was a mix of several dialects of different countries.

He shook her small, soft hand, "Sherlock Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you," Emma put her hand behind her back once more, and had a thoughtful look on her face, "Wait, Sherlock Holmes? I've heard stories about you in America, what a coincidence. But, I came here," she reached into her satchel and pulled out an envelope, "to give you this. The mail carrier gave me this on Saturday, and I'm sorry it's taken me this long to give it to you, I've been quite busy lately."

Sherlock took them from her, looking at it and indeed, addressed to him, "Well thank you, Miss. Gitali."

"Oh, it's no problem at all, in fact, I'll probably be back again tomorrow."

This brought up curiosity in his mind, "Why do you say that?" He put the letter on the shelf next to the doorway and leaned on the door frame.

"Oh, just a hunch." She smiled again, "Well, it was very nice to meet you Sherlock Holmes, but I must be on my way, have a glorious day." And she walked down the steps and down the walkway, and Sherlock watched until she was nothing but a tiny dot in the distance.

"And a glorious day I shall have." Sherlock said as he grabbed his coat and hat, and set off for a small stroll.

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**Sorry for the shortness, I'll make up for it in later chapters. **

**And please, please review? I'd really like to know why/if you would want to read more! :) And I am up for any suggestions/criticism on my story.**


	3. Chapter Three

**Hey hey hey. Thank you kindly for the couple of reviews I got! :) I love you hear from you guys.**

**Now, here's more insight on the situation at hand, into Sherlock thoughts and a bit more on Emma's past. By the way, thanks for the compliments on my character, I'm shaping her as best as I can. ;)**

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Tuesday morning, Holmes and Watson sat in the study, Mrs. Hudson came in and started dusting the book shelves.

Since yesterday, Sherlock could not get their neighbor, Emma Gitali, off his mind. Her very person stumped him like nothing else he's ever experienced before. Sure, he could tell that she was a very creative and artistic person by the remnants of paint on her hands and calloused finger tips that are quite possibly due from plucking at a guitar, with good hygiene, but he could also tell that she wasn't from these parts, well at least, not recently, her accent gave him that clue alone. But he was stumped as to her character, her past, her present, she was a mystery, but she was not at the same time. Those nights he hears her crying, he doesn't know how much pain she must have gone through that have such a lasting effect on her.

His mind has a mind of its own, cases have been close to nil as of late and it's decided to take this mystery upon itself and he could do nothing else but follow.

"Holmes, I hear you met Miss. Gitali yesterday." Sherlock nodded, "She's quite the...woman, isn't she?"

He nodded again, "That she is."

Watson flipped through a book, "I hear she's an artist, and a quite exceptional one as well, Mrs. Hudson informs me."

Sherlock thought, as he lit the tobacco in his pipe. He was right, very artistic.

"Holmes, what do you think about her?" Watson asked, and Sherlock was slightly taken aback by this.

And honestly, he didn't know what he thought of her, but as there was knocking on the door, Holmes immediately set his pipe down as he shot out of his chair, and it was obvious what he thought of the Miss. Gitali. "I'll get it!"

And speak of the devil, once again, stood Emma, with her hands modestly behind her back and waiting for the door to be answered.

"Good morning there, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I must say; I told you so." She pulled the letter out from behind her back. Holmes laughed slightly.

"Thank you dearly, Emma." She nodded, and smiled sweetly.

_How can a woman, who cries at night-every night, be in such a beautiful, happy mood in the morning...well, if you can't figure it out on your own, might as well get help and get this woman off your mind. Sherlock thought as she was about to walk away._

"Um, Miss. Gitali, would you like to come in, Mrs. Hudson is just making a lovely breakfast, won't you come in for a chat?" Sherlock could see she was thinking about it.

"Oh, well, sure, I don't see why not. Thank you." She walked inside and Sherlock led her to the study where Watson sat with his feet up on the table, reading the paper.

"Watson, I introduce Emma Gitali. Emma, this is Jonathan Watson." Emma walked over to him and shook his hand.

"Well hello, it's nice to meet you." He shook her hand as he lifted his feet off the table.

"And you as well," she sat down next to him, Sherlock began to pour tea for the three of them, "Excuse me if I seem a bit hesitant at times, it's just been hard to get used to most men being gentlemen," she laughed. "Thank you," Emma took a sip of the tea.

"Why is that?" Watson asked, taking a drink of his own. Emma seemed to lighten up as he asked her this.

"Oh, I spent the last several years traveling the world, India, China, America, Africa, the corruption of the men and women outside of London is truly unimaginable." She set her cup down, her hand shaking, "I loved it!" Watson and Sherlock laughed.

Emma told a little of her adventures in India and China for the rest of the morning until she explained how she had to go.

. . . . .

"_Thaad? Who are you reading today, my dear?" A voice spoke. The man, that sat on the sandy ground leaning against a log looked up from his book he was reading by the fire light. _

"_Edgar Lee Masters. Wonderful pot, sad life though."_

_A young Emma Livingston walked over to him, kneeling down and wrapping her arms around his neck and kissed his warmed cheek with her soft lips. "Read me one." She sat down next to Thaad. He flipped pack a few pages and stopped on a rather short poem._

"_Here's one I thought you'd love. It's called 'George Gray'._

"I have studied many times  
The marble which was chiseled for me--  
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.  
In truth it pictures not my destination  
But my life.  
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;  
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;  
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.  
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.  
And now I know that we must lift the sail  
And catch the winds of destiny  
Wherever they drive the boat.  
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,  
But life without meaning is the torture  
Of restlessnes and vague desire--  
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid..."

_Thaad closed the book slowly, "What did you think?" He looked at Emma with curious eyes._

_And she thought, "I like it. The meaning is slightly depressing. And the imagery is fantastic." Thaad laughed, nodding his head._

"_I knew you'd love that. It's almost like he was right here, judging himself before his tomb." Emma smiled, imagining it herself. "I particularly wanted to show you this one because I wanted to tell you something, Emma."_

_Emma moved to sit in front of him, Thaad took both her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs in circles around her knuckles._

"_What is it?"_

"_...Well, first, I just want you to know I love you with all of my heart." Emma blinked, afraid of what might come next, "And, second...I want to know if anything were to happen to me, if anything were to happen at all, that caused us to be separated, I want you to live your life without sorrow. I want you to make something of yourself. Your-beautiful-self." Thaad smiled at Emma's blushing cheeks, he reached up and stroked her cheek with his hand. "Have meaning to your life, Emma, I want to know if you'll do that. For me. If anything were to happen to me..."_

_Emma breathed heavily, taking in what Thaad had just asked of her._

"_Only if you'll do the same," Emma told him. And he smiled, kissing Emma full on the lips._

"_I love you, my dearest Emma."_

"_I love you, Thaad Gitali."_

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**Well? How was it? **

**Let me know! **


	4. Chapter Four

Emma awoke in a cold sweat on every inch of her skin. As she did almost every night she'd lived in London; half a year now.

Breathing harshly, she rubbed her face and sighed. She'd fallen asleep mid-day, she's never done that before. The clock read six in the afternoon; the sun should be setting about now.

The perfect time of day. She jumped up and ran in search for a blank canvas, easel, and paints. Finally finding them, she opened the back window, stood on the sill and began to ascend up three feet of wall before she was on the roof. Emma was not a dainty woman who feared of such small things like heights. But show her a spider, and that was a completely different story.

Her feet landed on the surface of the roof and she smiled at her triumph as if it was a mountain she'd just climbed.

The sun was setting, just like she predicted. Beautiful yellow glow as the horizon line ate up the sun. Setting up the easel, colours were soon captivating the entire canvas. Emma admired the work of art in front of her, as she silently watched the rest of the golden sun disappear.

Just as the darkness was slowly coming upon her, and the fog was claiming the air around her, she suddenly heard stumbling and then a gun shot from the apartment beneath her. She jumped in surprise.

"What in the world...?" Wonder overcame her and she slowly began to ease her way down to her window, gliding through the dark room. She stumbled over a few books and crashed into the floor, scraping the skin off her chin.

"...ow." She slowly picked herself and stumbled out into the hall way where there were a few candles lit. Another gun shot riddled the air and Emma jumped. She grabbed her satchel and rushed down the stairs and out the door.

Through her intense curiosity she completely forgot about the biting pain in her chin and she waltzed up the steps of 221B.

Knock, knock, knock.

No answer.

"Hello?" Her voice rang in the silence, and another gun shot rumbled in the apartment. _Jesus, what the hell is going on?_

Despite the voice in the back of her mind, Emma's hand reached for the gold handle and turned.

It was unlocked, and the door opened with a click. Looking around in paranoia, once, then twice. The peace of the night was nice, but the noise of stumbling up the stairs made her turn her head and Emma felt her legs shoot into the similar abode and up the stairs.

The apartment was just like hers only things were set in opposite ways. The stairs did not creak as her slipper covered feet jumped up them quickly. And the voice in the back of her mind told her that this was not something she should be doing, but she was worried about her neighbors, it could be some deranged, psycho murderer for all she knew.

She came up to the door where most the noise was leaking from and leaned her ear against it, placing her hands on either side of the door frame.

"Holmes!" She heard, it sounded like an aggravated and angry version of the lovely doctor she'd met earlier in the year. "What in bloody hell is wrong with you?!"

She strained her ears more, trying to hear the response but it was too quiet to understand. Emma leaned closer her full body weight on the door, and the old wood squeaked under the burden.

Everything was quiet and Emma held her breath.

Unexpectedly the door flew open and Emma lost her balance, and fell to the floor at the feet of Dr. Watson.

She looked up and laughed a little, waving, "Hey..."

"Miss Gitali, what are you doing here?" Watson held out a hand and helped her up. "And what happened to your chin?"

"I heard gunshots from my apartment, and some stumbling, you'd be surprised how thin these walls are actually," she spoke calmly, "I just wanted to come over and see if everything was alright. And I stumbled a bit myself on the way over, I'm quite fine though." As she spoke she looked around the room she now stood in with potent curiosity, making her words come out slowly.

The room she stood in seemed a lot like her own, only with all the colour whatsoever drained out from it's very core. A great deal of books and random clutter littered the floor, shelves, and desks. As her eyes traveled throughout the room, she recognized several trinkets with Indian culture characteristics, this peeked her curiosity even more. But suddenly her eyes landed on a man with a dark head of hair, sitting to the far north of the room with a smoking gun in his hand and a cloud of smoke around him.

Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, well, we are terribly sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Gita--"

"Oh, please, call me Emma."

"--Emma. I'm afraid it was caused by my slightly deranged room mate, he's in one of his...'moods'." Emma nodded, feeling Sherlock's eyes on her. They made her uncomfortable, and she didn't relish because she was in his line of view, no matter his handsome face or not.

Emma heard Sherlock stand up from his chair and walked over to the two of them. "Dearest Watson, don't you have a _fiance _thatneed be attended to?"

Emma looked at Watson, seeing him roll his eyes she laughed.

But he nodded none the less, "Yes, I do. I will see you tomorrow Holmes." Watson tipped his hat to Emma, "Good evening, Miss Emma."

The doctor cascaded down the stairs and out the door into the night.

Emma looked back to Sherlock who was standing about a yard from her, "Well, I guess since everything's fine here, I'll just be on my...way."

She turned to leave.

"Close the door. Don't leave just yet." Emma stopped with her back turned to him. And she turned around leisurely.

* * *

She stood in his room.

Emma stood in his room.

Emma stood in Sherlock Holmes' room.

He studied her as she conversed with Watson. She wasn't a very tall woman, he noted, but she didn't match the height of a child either. Her eyes were the most brilliant shade of green even in the darkened light. It was a nice colour. And though, where his eyes traveled seemingly was deemed as inappropriate, but it was difficult to help so.

Emma was a small woman, in all parts. Her hands were small, her arms were thin and slender, legs, torso...breasts...all small. Very petite.

Sherlock could tell that his eyes on her were making her uncomfortable, making him feel somewhat powerful that he could make her feel an emotion without even saying one word. Not one...word.

And for some reason, having Watson there was making him uncomfortable, but he easily got rid of him.

Just as Emma was about to walk out of the door, Sherlock spoke up, "Close the door. Don't leave just yet." And she turned around slowly, though some imaginary wind caught the hem of her dress, making it spin around her knees.

Her eyes looked upon him, and he smiled. Her eyes wondered around his room and she started to walk around, touching the tops of random books; brushing off the dust. She picked up one that intrigued her and started to flip through it. Holmes watched her, not particularly wanting to say something, but wanting at the same time.

"You play, Sherlock Holmes?" She looked over at him, smiling, "The violin?"

"That I do."

"Very well too, you'd be surprised how thin these wall are...I hear you sometimes at night..." She looked down, and if you looked closely (which Sherlock always did) you could see a small rose colour rising to her cheeks, "It calms me. Even inspires me, the peculiar notes."

"Inspires you?" She did intrigue him, Emma did indeed.

"To paint, to draw, to even create my own music. My piano hasn't arrived from India yet, but it should be here soon."

"I never much took to the piano when I was younger."

"Oh, I just adore the sound of the piano." She continued to look around. She walked all over the room, admiring all of his little nothings and experiments.

"You do have the curiosity of a child, Emma Gitali." She turned to face him quickly.

"Sorry, it's just...I am quite fond of this room, reminds me of my own in certain ways. Less colourful, though with the same clutter-ness." She smirked and sat down in a chair, followed by Sherlock who sat in a chair next to her.

"I'd offer you tea but I'm afraid the nanny has poisoned it...again." Emma looked at him curiously, but didn't mention it.

"Oh, well it's alright then." Sherlock noticed she didn't cross her legs like a normal woman would, and she didn't cross her hands on her lap either, merely just sat there, looking at him. "Why did you want me to stay?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, and he set his ankle on his left knee. "I wanted to ask you something, something that is of great interest of me." She looked at him, edging him to go on. "You said you hear me playing violin at night," Emma nodded, "Well I hear you at night some- well every night. I hear you crying."

He looked at Emma and could tell she was surprised, and scared, though she tried to hide it. She was good at that. Hiding.

"Why are you so saddened by night, and during the day you hide it? In fact, you hide it so well that you hide it too well, and I can see right through it." Emma looked away from his gaze, rapping her arms around her stomach. That was a sign that she was uncomfortable with the situation. "I do not mean to discomfort you, Miss Gitali, I was mer-"

"No, it's fine, Sherlock. I only cry at night because I let myself remember..." Sherlock's thought train stopped.

"Remember what, exactly?" He knew he was prying, but he wanted to know.

She sighed, "...My family."

Sherlock was a bit taken back by this, but persisted on, "What happened to them?"

Emma started playing with her fingers, nervous habit. "I don't know."

_She doesn't know? How could she not know what happened to them?_

"You don't know? You shed tears for something, and you don't even know if you should? Where's the sense in that?" Emma looked up suddenly, Sherlock could practically feel the red hot anger radiating off of her.

"I cry because I think of all the possible things that could have happened to them, I would think you, of all minds in England, would understand that." Sherlock put his hands up, in defeat. "I can't help myself from thinking of what had happened to my little girl..." Emma stopped before she said anything more, for she'd said enough.

"Wait, what?" This girl was full of surprises that he did not understand, "How old are you, exactly?"

Emma turned her gaze towards him, "Now, is that a proper question to ask a lady?" When Sherlock didn't answer her question and only stared at her with intense eyes, she laughed slightly. "I'm twenty-seven. Meribelle, my little girl, was born when I was twenty-one. Very young to have a child, too young in fact. I know."

Sherlock observed her, she spoke with such pride when she spoke of this. Despite his skill-full intellect and cunning mind, he would never have guessed Emma Gitali to have been a mother, for she was much like a child herself; her curious eyes and silly words. And then a thought crossed him.

"And the father?"

Emma didn't answer for a moment and then, she stood. Walked to the far north side of his room, to a desk with a few books and random papers scattered around a lone picture frame.

She picked it up, admiring the beauty of the woman in the picture.

"She's very beautiful. Who is she?" Sherlock quickly stood and walked over to her, ripping the frame from her hands and placing it face down on the desk.

"She's...none of your concern."

Emma laughed a little, standing close to Sherlock, looking him in the eyes, "If she is to none of my concern, why should my life be of _any _concern to you?"

He looked into her eyes, and stood there for a second without saying a word.

"You have the most...interesting shade of brown in your eyes. Almost amber, but hints of beige." Sherlock looked away and walked over to a shelf, lighting a match and he lit the tobacco in his pipe.

"You know, that nasty stuff is killing you." Sherlock rolled his eyes, though she couldn't see him, "The smoke stays in your lungs and slowly eats them away until you have nothing left to breathe with."

Sherlock snorted, "What an attractive statement."

Emma laughed, "I only speak the truth, Sherlock Holmes." She set the frame back up and then walked slowly to where she'd set down her satchel, reached into it, and pulled out a piece of charcoal and her sketchbook. She flipped through until she landed on a blank page, a plain white blank page. She looked up at Sherlock once more and began to draw.

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**Review?! I love you hear what you guys think! **


	5. Chapter Five

**Hello there, my beautiful readers, here's a fifth chapter for you, and I promise that a plot will soon be established. And I want to thank my loyal reviewer, Deathcab4kimmie, it is a delight to know that I get a review from you and I do a little dance to myself when I see that email. Thank you. **

**Enjoy and review? That'd be wonderful.**

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Emma had left sometime during the night, Sherlock didn't notice, her footsteps were like a mouse. That morning, Sherlock and Watson were having breakfast down in the study. Holmes was making a house out of waffles, an architectural breakthrough, when Ms. Hudson came into the room with a pot of tea and the mail in her hands.

"Only two letters today, Mr. Holmes. One has no return address." She said at she gave the letters to Holmes, poring tea into each man's cup. Holmes grabbed the one that didn't have a return address and threw the other one on the table.

It was a medium sized envelope, but it was a deep red colour and written in golden ink on it's cover was, '_Sherlock Holmes'._

He opened it slowly, carefully. He pulled out a letter and read it.

_'My dear neighbor,_

_You are a perfect medium in order to create a beautiful portrait. Thank you for letting me use you as a model._

_Truly,_

_your dear neighbor.'_

He unfolded a piece of parchment, and looked upon the drawing. It was almost like he was looking into a mirror, looking at the portrait Emma had sketched of him the night before.

"What is it?" Watson asked, picking up the letter and reading it. He raised an eyebrow.

"I knew she was drawing, but I didn't think she'd be drawing a portrait of myself." Sherlock set the paper down and Watson took a glance at it.

"Hmm," he wondered out loud, "Maybe she fancies you, Holmes."

Holmes shook his head, "I believe you are mistaken, Watson, I highly doubt that is the case."

Watson rolled his eyes and picked up the other letter, "Is it so hard to believe that there might be someone out there interested in you, Holmes?"

There was a long pause, "Yes."

Watson started reading the letter, realizing that it was actually an invitation. "How about you go over and invite Miss Emma to the Masquerade Ball tomorrow." He tossed the letter over to Holmes, who watched it fall in his lap.

"A ball? Why ever would we be invited to a ball?" He picked it up and started reading it. "This invitation is for you, Watson."

Watson shrugged, "Doesn't mean I can't bring guests. Now, I really think you should consider asking Miss Gitali."

Sherlock looked over at him, "You ask her."

Watson leaned back in his chair, staring at Holmes with intent in his eyes. Holmes stared back.

_Alright, _Holmes thought, _let the commencement of the staring contest begin._

A few seconds later, Watson blinked, his face straight, "Go ask her."

Sherlock stood, grabbing the sketch and replied, "If you want her to come so bad, you ask her." And he walked out of the room. Watson stood as well, and followed him.

"I intended on bringing my fiancee, Holmes, not my neighbor." He followed him up the stairs and stood in the doorway of Holmes' room. "But if you want me to ask her...I mean, she is kind of pretty..."

Holmes laughed, "Don't think that that trick will work on me. You, of all people, should know that."

Watson saw Sherlock place the sketch and the note Emma had given him on his desk, set them in front of the picture of Irene Adler. Watson smirked, knowingly.

"Let me know what she says when you ask her, I'll be in my room." And with that, he left Holmes to his thoughts.

Holmes looked into space for a moment, then turned to look out the window. The busy street below.

"Masquerade?" He pondered the thought. Then his thoughts turned to Emma, and his face eased. And he considered it.

She probably wouldn't want to go, let alone with a man like him. She did draw a portrait of him, though. But that doesn't mean she's interested in him.

He sighed, it was going to be a long afternoon of arguments with himself.

A few hours later, Sherlock lay on the floor, face down. Trying to stimulate his nerves. He flipped himself over, staring at the ceiling. He sighed, a grumble in his throat.

Again he sighed, "What's the harm?" The voice in his head said to him. And he considered it. The more he thought, the more he considered it.

Holmes stood, looked once around him and walked down the stairs and slammed the door behind him.

He knocked twice. Waited approximately thirty seconds for the sound of foot steps anywhere near the door, and when he had heard none, he knocked once more. He heard no sign of his knock to be answered, so he turned on his heel, set to leave back to his abode.

But then, in the midst of his thoughts thinking that all he was doing was making a fool out of himself, another thought strayed to his mind.

Emma was an easily trusting girl enough not to lock her door.

Sherlock turned around, glancing around him once and walked into Emma's apartment with ease.

And he was greeted by a strong smell of incense and bizarre colours that filled the walls as if they were thrown on there in such hurry. Rich oranges and Indian blues acquainted the walls, red draperies hung over the windows with stitched flowers all over them. A strong psychedelic vibe, the colours and patterns everywhere, like he was taking walk into one of his dreams.

There were hundreds of canvases that were placed randomly all around, leaving hardly enough room to walk down the hall way. As Sherlock walked, he came to a sudden halt when he stood in front of two vases sitting in the middle of the hall way.

One, filled with beautiful tropical flowers that he knew could be found no where near London.

And the other, held lifeless, dead, graying flowers that hung pathetically over the edge of the vase.

How odd, they sat right next to each other. He stepped over them quickly and began to ascend down the hallway once more. But then he stopped again, at a table sitting off to the side.

An orange, eye-catching box sat over the very edge, about to topple over on the floor. Sherlock pushed it onto the table with lite force and something else caught his eye.

A picture frame, sitting plainly on the surface of the table. He picked it up and examined it.

A picture of a man. An African man, hair in dreaded locks that hung loosely over his forehead. Dark intense eyes that held a lot of truth as he looked to whoever it was taking the photograph. This was clearly the man that was the father to Emma's aforementioned daughter as he looked upon the next photograph and saw the resemblance.

Sherlock set the frame down and picked up another one, it was one of Emma holding a little girl in her arms as the child made a funny face. This was the daughter, Meribelle, and the mother, Emma. Sherlock's eyes lingered on the face of his neighbor. She was younger and her hair was longer, but still the same Emma. Though there was something lacking in comparison to the Emma in the photograph, and the one who inhabited this house.

The Emma in the photograph held a strong sensation of...happiness. Or that what it seemed like. And why wouldn't she be? She had a beautiful daughter, a man to father her child, living out in the world where she belongs. And the contrast between the two is clearly shown in Sherlock's eyes for he knew that the Emma now was not the Emma in the picture, any longer.

After a moment longer examining the picture, he set it down and walked around the odd styled apartment a little longer, his eyes wondering and catching on certain things he'd only imagined in his dreams.

He then stood at the base of the stairs, contemplating whether or not to walk up them. Well, Emma certainly didn't have any trouble with it yesterday.

He slowly ascended up the stairs, and once he reached the top his eyes wondered to a door that was halfway open and a slightly large sound could be heard from inside. Sherlock knocked on the door once, but had no patience as he opened the door and stuck his head in. He was greeted by a gust of fresh air and light, for all the windows were open letting the Spring sun in.

Emma sat at a chair that was fairly low to the ground, with her hands rapped around a spinning glob of red clay. Her hands covered in dried clay, the residue almost reached her elbows.

She lifted her head at the sound of the door and Sherlock's footsteps. When her cool green eyes landed on him, a smiled erupted across her face, wrinkling a small blotch of clay on her cheek.

"Hello, Sherlock." She kept her hands on the spinning clay, dividing her attention between the two. "Did you get my drawing?"

He nodded, "Yes, it was a pleasant surprise, thank you."

She smiled again, lifting one hand from the clay, grabbed a sponge and dipped it in a water bowl that was next to her feet, bringing it back to the clay. Her hands started to slowly form a small vase.

"I enjoyed drawing you. You have such strong features, I couldn't help myself." She looked up at him, "You can have a seat if you like, I think there should be a chair behind me if you want to pull it out."

Holmes spotted the chair and pulled it out so he sat directly in front of her.

"I came by to regretfully ask you if you wanted to attend a Masquerade Ball with Watson, Mary, and...I...Watson has this uncanny plan of getting the two of us together, ask me not, I do not know." Sherlock told her, picking his words carefully as he let his eyes wonder around Emma's room, much like she did when she was in his own room.

Emma continued to sculpt the pot in front of her, but with a pondering look upon her face. "A..._Masquerade _?"

"Yes."

She thought longer, "Okay. Sure." She smiled again, and Holmes couldn't help but smile a little, though he'd never admit to it. "When is it?"

"Uh, tomorrow, if I am not mistaken."

"Oh, well then it sounds fantastic. I think I have the perfect dress for it as well. I'll, say, meet you around five or so tomorrow afternoon?" Emma stood slowly from her chair as the potting wheel slowed to a stop. And on top sat a beautiful vase that she'd made, and in merely minutes, is what surprised Holmes the most.

She wiped her hands on the apron she wore and gave him a small smile.

"Sounds great, Miss Gitali. And if I may ask, what is the colour of dress you will be wearing tomorrow?" Holmes asked, watching her intently.

"I believe it is gold. If I may ask, why do you ask?"

"Best not ruin something for the greater of finding out later." He tipped his hat to her, "Good afternoon, Emma, I shall see you tomorrow," and he walked out the door, down the steps, careful of anything he might trip on and stopped at the front door. He turned and looked back up to the room and saw Emma leaning on the doorway, smiling down at him. He gave her a small smile and made his was out the door and to his own apartment without a word to spare. Though, he silently thought to himself, what exactly was he getting himself into?

* * *

Later that day, Emma looked at the dress that sat on her bed. She shifted her weight back and forth upon her feet, contemplating on whether or not she should choose this dress. It was a plain gold dress, floral imprinted. But she felt it needed more. Something more...

"Colour! Needs a knew colour!" She exclaimed. "But what colour?" She asked no one in particular.

Green? No.

Black? No way.

Brown? N-...yes!

Emma smiled, but realised she didn't have any fabric laying around. Which honestly surprised her, with all the junk she owned. She'd have to go into town and find a tailor of some sort. Emma found some money and with her satchel at her side she set off into town.

An hour of searching the desolate at heart, city of London, she'd finally found the absolute perfect shade of brown fabric needed to complete her dress. She smiled to herself as she walked down the cobble stone streets when Emma suddenly felt wet droplets fall on her cheek.

She looked up at the sky, lifting her hand to catch the raindrops in her palm. She smiled as thunder softly clapped around her and a sudden symphony of of raindrops began to poor down.

Emma laughed and she held up both hands, twirling around in the cleansing natural shower. She always loved the rain, always made her joyous. She danced her way all the way down to Baker street when in mid spin, she backed into an unknown thing.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She apologized as she turned around, but no one was there. She felt a sharp sting on the back of her right arm, she tried to rub it out as she walked the rest of the way to her house, soaking wet from the rain.

Unbeknownst to Emma, a man watched her from across the street as she stepped into her apartment. He smiled a sickly smile before he set off down the alley way and vanished in the darkening night, as if the rain were his trap door.

* * *

**Plot is beginning to establish :)**

**And concerning Emma's apartment, I picture the inside of 221A to resemble Lionel Sweeney's apartment from the movie Fur. If you haven't seen it I extremely recommend it, it is fantastic. Probably one of my all time favourite movies. Also, Robert Downey Jr. portrays a finominal character. **

**Thank you for reading, and...review?**


	6. Chapter Six

Emma Gitali smiled in the mirror, a smile she hasn't smiled in a while. The dress fit like a well-fit glove, the flawless gold and brown fabric fraying out from the natural waist, reaching mid-calf and brown wrap boots came to her knees. Her hair was curled, like it usually was, and her bangs came to her eyes. She had yet to try on her mask, but she felt she'd wait until she got to the Ball to do it.

Emma cursed when she realized it was nearing five-thirty. She quickly, though clumsily, fumbled down the stairs, grabbed a blanket, and walked out of her apartment. It was raining steadily so she ran over quickly, and stood as close to the door as possible to take shelter under the small porch covering and she rang the door bell.

The door was answered quickly, by John who gave her a smile.

"Did you know that rain drops aren't really shaped like tear drops? They're actually shaped more round...ish." Emma smiled and John stepped aside to let her.

John chuckled, "Good to see you Emma."

"Good to see you as well, John. How have you been?" Emma rapped her blanket around herself.

"I've been very well actually, I want you to come meet someone." John spoke to her, guiding her into the study. When they entered, Emma saw a young blond woman sitting by the unlit fireplace. She turned when she heard the two of them entering the room. She was very beautiful.

"Emma, this is Mary Morstan, my fiancee. Mary, this is Emma Gitali." Mary stood with a smile.

"It's so nice to meet the infamous Emma Gitali, I've heard lots about you." She shook Emma's hand gently.

"Have you now?" Emma laughed, "Only good things I hope. It's very nice to meet you too."

All of a sudden, Emma heard a large boom come from above them, the lights shook on the ceiling. Watson sighed in annoyance.

"Holmes..." He said under his breath as he began to walk out the room, but Emma grabbed his arm.

"Perhaps I should go up, yeah?" Emma said, and he nodded, walking over to Mary. Emma took in a breath and began to rise up the steps slowly.

"She's an interesting girl." Mary said, "Much like Mr. Holmes."

John nodded his head, chuckling, "They are both interesting enough, but each of their outlooks on life are rather different. But you should see the way they act around each other, Holmes especially. It's rather entertaining."

"So Mr. Holmes fancies her?"

John laughed, remembering the conversation he'd had the other day with Holmes, "He does. He won't ever admit it, not even to himself, but he does."

"I didn't think the day would come. Sherlock Holmes, the man who thinks women can never be trusted, finally trusts a woman." Mary giggled and John wrapped his arm around her.

. . .

Emma walked up to Sherlock's room slowly and pushed the door open. A gust of black smoke infuldged her and she coughed.

"Sherlock?" Emma walked in, looking around. She saw Sherlock sitting in a chair casually holding up a newspaper, hiding his face. Emma laughed.

"Yes, who is it?" A voice came from behind the paper. Emma said nothing, she just walked over to him and snatched the paper from his hands. Sherlock jumped.

"Bonjour," Emma said to the charred and blackened up face of Sherlock Holmes. He smiled, looking casually up at her.

"Yes, hello. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm very nice in fact. How are you?"

"Quite wonderful." Emma laughed at his calm tone of voice.

"Let's get out cleaned up, you don't want to be late to the Ball, now do you?"

"Oh, never." He answered sarcastically.

Emma found a bowl of water and a rag. She began to dab the rag across his forehead, wiping off any black residue.

"You know, I am quite capable of doing a simple task such as this, myself." Emma laughed, putting one hand on his cheek so she could wipe the other.

"I am quite aware." She smiled, yet still continued to clean his face. He didn't complain.

Emma felt his eyes searching her body, it made her uncomfortable. Most of the time his gazes did.

"You made this dress yourself." He stated. Emma nodded.

"I did, how did you guess?"

"Even though the dress is..." He paused for a second, then said quickly, "very nice, there are random strings sticking out around the waist. If it were made by a professional, they wouldn't have made silly mistakes like leaving stray strings. Furthermore, the tips of your fingers are very rough and callosed, indicating that you used a needle, and not very professionally, if I may add."

Emma laughed, finishing up cleaning his face. "Impressive, Mr. Holmes." Emma stood, placing the bowl and rag on his desk. Sherlock began to dress as Emma's back was turned. She could hear the shuffling of clothing so she didn't turned around until it had stopped.

She turned around and was she saw was yet again, impressive. He was in a smart suit, though the vest had a unique pattern on it which gave it personality and he wore a golden scarf that matched perfectly to Emma's dress. She was, undoubtfuly, speechless. But she smiled.

He grabbed his hat and a plain golden mask that sat on the desk next to her.

"Ready?" He asked. Emma smiled, and rapped her arm around his, nodding. She felt him tense up against her touch, but his face remained the same as they walked down the steps to meet Watson and Mary.

They sat and conversed over tea for a while before a cab was called and they were on their way to the Grand Hall where the Masquerade was being held.

Emma's eyes shined as she looked around the large lobby she stood in. Two large stair cases on either side of the room, golds and pure whites, festival décor, and beautiful people in mysterious masks. Even her own didn't compare to most, in fact, hers seemed very simple. Just a cream coloured one with gold swirls, one she'd made herself, and obviously one of very few simplicity compared to all the rest.

"I don't know why I've never been to one of these before, it is so very...magical." Holmes stood beside her, smiling at her aweness, but quickly wiped it off his face before she could see. "It's like I was plucked straight out of this normal world and dropped right into a fantasy, don't you think Sherlock?"

He nodded, "It is quite beautiful," his eyes never leaving her. She looked at him, even though he wore a mask she could still tell it was him, by his black graying hair, or by his stunning brown eyes, or his stumble that never seems to grow nor disappear.

She grabbed his hand, "Come on, let's dance," and drug him onto the dance area.

Sherlock held her hand in his, he set his other respectfully on Emma's waist. Emma rested her arm around his neck and they began to waltze. Emma was surprised at how smooth his movements were, like he'd been dancing all his life.

The music was a bit more upbeat than Emma would've normally liked, but it reminded her of a time when Thaad had taken her out dancing. And the more she thought about it, the more her mind played with her. She looked at Sherlock and saw Thaad's dark skin and pudging lips.

_No,_ she thought to herself, _I am here with Sherlock._

She blinked once, and then twice.

_Ah, there we go._ She smiled a kind smile and Holmes returned it. She suddenly became transfixed in his facial features and she really look the time to admire how handsome Sherlock really was.

"You really surprise me, Sherlock." Emma said after a while.

"How so?"

"I never would've guessed London's top consulting detective to be a dancer."

"I'm not."

. . .

Emma looked up at the sky, the stars so bright. Her eyes sparkled underneath them as she and Sherlock stood on the balcony outside of the Masquerade.

"Look," she said, pointing to a clump of stars, "that is Chamaeleon. And that's...Ursa Major..."

Sherlock looked up at stars. They'd always intrigued him but he hardly took the time to memorize every constellation. He knew a few, like Orion or Leo, but none more than that. He felt he didn't need to know them.

"Oh! And there is Leo. That one's always been my favourite." Emma smiled brightly and for a second, Sherlock almost swore he saw that sliver of happiness in her eyes that he'd seen in the picture of her and her daughter.

"You're being awfully quiet, Sherlock. That's unlike you, something bothering you?" She turned to face him and he leaned against the ledge.

"Nothing particularly comes to mind, just pondering a few thoughts." Emma nodded, looking out into the night.

"Have you ever thought about love?"

A long silence passed before he answered.

"No, I have not. It is a very foolish path to follow."

Emma shrugged, playing with a part of her dress, "I don't think so."

"Oh, yes, that's right, you had a child through such acts of love." Sherlock spoke with a gaunt tone. Emma looked up at him, she didn't know what to say for fear her anger would overcome her. Her anger of him speaking of the past like it was a pitiful mistake.

"...Yes."

"I would never have been caught acting so foolishly in my young years."

Emma said nothing. Anger and sadness boiled inside her. Sherlock went on about Mary and Watson's marriage and about how he thought it was a mistake. He showed bitterness towards the relationship, but she didn't listen much.

He suddenly stopped, realizing that his harsh words were making Emma's hands clench together, her knuckles were white.

"Oh, I've upset you."

She turned to him, "Yeah. Yeah, you have." And she turned around and walked back inside.

"Emma--" Sherlock called out to her, but she only sped up her pace until she'd ran all the way down the stairs and outside into the night.

* * *

**Sorry for the spelling mistakes, I usually correct them from the Document Manager but for some reason it's being extremely stubborn and not letting me.**

**But reviews would make me happy :)**


	7. Chapter Seven

**I just couldn't help myself by posting another chapter. :) Thanks for all the PM's and the one review I got! Yeah! Kidding, of course, but I'd like to hear from some of you guys in reviews? Maybe? Yes?**

**Okay, cool, awesome. :)**

_**Appréciez s'il vous plaît ce chapitre.**_

* * *

About a block down the road she stopped running, her heavy breath formed clouds as the exited her mouth. She clutched her arms around her, freezing.

"Very clever, Emma." She said to herself as she began to walk down the street slowly, trying to remember how to get back to Baker street.

She turned a corner and looked up at the street sign.

"Darenger street? That sounds familiar." She continued walking. The longer she walked the colder and darker it seemed to get. And paranoia began to set in as that feeling of being followed rose upon her.

_Great, not only am I lost and freezing, I'm probably gonna be the damsel in distress as well._

"Ugh..." Emma turned another corner and it seemed even more foreign than the last. With every step she took she scolded herself for being so dumb as to run out into a city that she hardly knew all alone.

She began to hear footsteps not far behind her. When she slowed, they slowed. She began to speed up her pace until she broke out into a run.

She passed two streets and didn't hear anything behind her, no steps at all. She slowed and turned her head to look behind her to confirm her theory that no one was behind her. But as she turned her head back around she bumped into a dark hooded figure.

_Like I didn't see that coming,_ Emma thought to herself.

"Are you...loooost, little girrrrrl?" The man purred in a high pitched slur. He brought up a pale, wrinkled hand and grabbed a lock of her hair, twirling it between his long fingernails.

She moved back quickly, "N-no. As a matter of fact I'm just out for a small stroll."

The man's hands moved in an odd way as he talked, "Hmm...I see. A small stroll for a small little girl, in a small little dress, in the small little night...all aloooooone..."

Emma shifted her eyes around her, unsure of what to do.

The man stepped closer to her and she backed up, trying to keep a good foot between them. He brought his hand up and stroke her cheek with his long, yellowing fingernail.

"Um...yes, so, I best be on my..._little_ way. Good to...meet...you." Hurriedly, Emma began to walk off.

"Do you know what it's like when the sun sets and sorrow is knocking at your door, little girrrrrrl?"

She stopped. His words seemed familiar, so familiar. _'Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;'._ That poem Thaad had read to her, so long ago.

Emma turned around to see that the strange man had disappeared. A chill ran up her spine and it wasn't from the cold.

A few hours of walking around London Emma had finally gotten to the conclusion that this was by far the largest, never ending city in the world. She grew up here for god's sakes and she could barely find her way around. And its was just her luck that it started raining at around five A.M.

Emma sighed, but still continued to walk. She didn't want to know what would happen if she stopped.

At around six-thirty when the world around her began to get lighter, the rain had stopped and business and fancy aristocratic people started to fill the streets.

"Excuse me, sir?" She walked up to a homely man standing on the street corner. He turned and looked at her.

"Shoo, you filthy rat, I have no money for you." And with that he waltzed away.

Emma stood there, and scoffed slightly in disbelief. He thought she was some homeless beggar.

Well, she was soaking wet with makeup probably running down her face, but she hardly looked homeless.

It had taken her two hours later, but she'd finally gotten directions to Baker street and who would've guessed that it was just three blocks down from where she stood.

When she spotted the 'Baker St.' sign, she ran with all her might and hugged the pole.

"Finally!" She exclaimed, earning some questionable and appalled looks, but she ignored them. She was so happy to be back on Baker street. Pitch black nights in India's wild animal filled jungles were nothing compared to a long London night, in her opinion anyway.

She let loose the pole and began to ascend quickly down the street sidewalk. When she neared her apartment she saw a large moving carriage and a few men standing around talking to John and Sherlock. She walked closer and that's when John lifted up his head and saw her.

He pushed passed the men and rushed over to her.

"Where have you been, Emma?"

She looked over to Sherlock who was looking at her with an expressionless face, and looked back to Watson.

"Oh, I decided to take a walk around London. _All_...of London." She spoke the last sentence louder so Holmes would hear it. She knew he did because after she said that he walked over to the two of them.

"What a very foolish thing to do, you could have put yourself in a terrible situation, could have gotten yourself hurt." Holmes spoke, puffing away at his pipe.

"She did." Watson said, and Emma looked at him questionably. "Where did you acquire that gash on your cheek?" He brought his hand to her face and inspected it, "It's going to need stitches, luckily I have some with me up in my room. Come on, let's get you cleaned up. Holmes, you can take care of these men, can't you?"

Watson ushered Emma into the house without waiting for a response from Holmes.

"You nearly gave Mary and I a heart attack when Holmes had said you ran off, we looked for you for nearly two hours. What happened?" Watson asked as he cleaned the blood from her face, she had had no idea of the cut on her face whatsoever.

"I just let my anger get the better of me, I'm sorry, I should've st-stayed." Emma winced as feeling started to come into her cheek.

"Was it something Holmes did? Something he said? Because if it was, I can assure you he meant nothing by it." He began to thread the needle through her skin and she squeezed her hands so hard her fingernails began to break skin on her palms.

"That man is insensitive, unfeeling, ba―ow!" Emma jumped in the pain as Watson finished stitching her up.

"Emma, he doesn't mean anything by it."

"Oh, he does. Or else he wouldn't say it."

Just then, the door opened to reveal Holmes. He looked apologetically towards Emma who just ignored his stare.

"Watson, will you give Miss Gitali and I a moment?" Watson looked between the two and nodded, though unsure if he should.

Holmes replaced Watson as he took his seat in front of her.

Emma said nothing to him. Didn't even look at him.

"Why did you do that? What happened to you?"

It was a long moment before she spoke. "I walked around London. Lovely town this is. Full of rude, crude, and terribly strange people. And I love the weather too," she said sarcastically. Holmes rolled his eyes.

"You walked around London all night. An intelligent woman would've stopped somewhere or came back."

"I didn't want come back and be judged by a man who only goes by his own experiences." She crossed her arms in a huff.

Holmes sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Your piano arrived."

Her face lit up and she shot of the room like a bullet, and Sherlock followed.

Outside the men were moving a piano out of the back of the carriage. But when she saw the piano her face dropped.

This wasn't her piano. Her piano has a beautiful brown oak structure, this one was a dark black piano and that alone scared her.

"Are you...Emma Livingston?" Emma nodded to the man.

"Yes I am."

"Awright, where would you like this?"

Emma shook her head, "That's not my piano."

"Well this is Baker Street, 221A, no?"

"Well, yes, but this isn't my piano. Who is it from?" The man took a paper from the front of the carriage.

"Huh, there is not a returning address, Miss." Emma looked at Sherlock.

"I don't want this piano, it's not mine and I don't know who sent it. Just take it back, sell it, do...whatever." The men nodded and loaded the somber piano back into the carriage and road off.

_First that man last night, now this._ "Things just keep getting stranger," Emma said to herself.

"How is that?" Holmes said from behind her.

"I dunno. But I wouldn't be surprised if something even more odd were to happen. Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I must get cleaned up, and changed out of yesterday's clothes. And I'm sure my flowers are missing me as well."

Sherlock watched her as she walked up the steps and went inside her apartment.

"I will never, ever understand a woman any less that I do her."


	8. Chapter Eight

**Hey, sorry it's been so long! But I'm back ;) And please let me know what you think of this chapter! Also, I wrote a Kirk Lazarus one-shot that you should check out.**

* * *

_**One Week Later**_

"Holmes," Watson walked into Sherlock's room, stopping at the sight he saw in annoyance. Sherlock was hanging upside down on the rafters from the ceiling, a book in his hand. "Holmes, get down, we're going out to dinner tonight."

"My dear Watson, what makes you think I haven't already had dinner? It is such a late hour in the evening." He flipped the page casually, just hanging there.

"Because I know you. Now come on, get down before all the blood rushes to your head and you pass out." Completely ignoring his words, Sherlock turned to the next page.

"How inter-"

"Emma's coming too." Sherlock turned his head towards Watson, which was a large mistake because when he turned his head, he also turned his upper body which resulted to him slipping from the rafter and falling to the ground with a thump.

"Ugh..."

"Look decent, we'll be leaving in a moment." Watson left with a smirk on his face as Sherlock began to get ready.

* * *

Watson and Mary sat together at one side of the table, Emma and Holmes sat at the other, though not as close together as Mary and Watson were.

Emma wore a silk red dress, a lot like the one she wore when Holmes first met her, that made Sherlock internally choke every time he glanced at her. Red was her colour. Her brown hair that was held up in a bun by chopsticks looked a dark auburn in the low light.

"Emma, dear, I absolutely love that dress on you. Where ever did you acquire it?" Mary asked, taking a sip of white champagne.

Emma took a drink of her own red champagne, "I got it in Singapore, a nice man by the name of Victor Wong gave it to me for free, he said I was the only woman on this planet that deserved to wear it." She giggled and took another drink.

Holmes snorted, making Emma glare at him.

"Well, what a nice compliment. And he was right, it looks ravishing on you. Don't you think, Mr. Holmes?" Mary turned her striking gaze towards him.

Taking in the last gulp of his champagne, "Hmm? Yes, if you call tomatoes ravishing."

Emma pursed her lips, then cocked an eyebrow.

"When was the last time you washed that shirt, Sherlock? Or is that smudge of dirt on your collar a trick of the light?" She reached over and rubbed her hand over it. Sherlock gave her a not so smug smile, rolling his eyes a bit.

Watson and Mary chuckled. Their food soon arrived and Emma was working on her third glass of champagne, Holmes on his forth.

"So, received any mysterious pianos lately, Emma?" Holmes said, breaking the air of silence between the two while Mary and Watson sped off into a conversation concerning where their future will lead.

"As a matter of fact," she paused to take a drink, "no."

"Interesting, you were so keen that it would happen again." Now he looked at her with a smug look on his face.

"For your information, I was so _keen _onthe fact that something might happen _like _it. It scared me and you know that." Emma played around with her salad with her fork. Popping the green lettuce her mouth.

"Something so small like that shouldn't scare you at all," he said, demeaning her. And Emma took offense to it. But she just sat in her seat, frozen. But not a second later she let her fork drop to her plate, making a loud clink. Mary and John looked up.

Without words, a certain glint in her eyes, Emma moved her plate over to the side, stood up on her chair and stepped onto the table. The dishes clinked but didn't break under he feet.

"Emma..." Watson spoke quietly in suspicion.

"Excuse me! Ladies and gentlemen!" The room had quieted and everyone had their heads turned towards Emma, "I want you all to know, that a selfish, pitiful man by the name of Sherlock Holmes sits among you, judging everyone by his own standards."

Sherlock tried to grab her dress to get her to step down, but she only backed away from his malicious hand.

"A selfish man who has no normal human feeling emotions. At. All. Who makes a fool out of anyone less intelligent than he is. Who thinks that there is a logical, scientific explanation to everything, and if there's not: it simply does not exist. i.e. Love, for one!" She laughed. "A man that does not believe in love."

Holmes couldn't believe what she was saying, though it didn't surprise him, he'd had enough and he pulled the napkin from his shirt and climbed onto the table next to her.

"Oh, says the woman who believes that all we need is a little creativity and some 'imagination' and everything will be all fine and dandy. Fine and dandy my ass! A woman who doesn't understand the boundaries of what is considered reality and fantasy is utterly worthless."

Emma clenched her jaw, "You are a man who won't let himself believe in anything he doesn't understand. Where will that get you in life? No where!"

Watson watched the two bicker with an annoyed and somewhat embarrassing look on his face. He was surprised the table didn't collapse under the weight on the two. He should've known coming to a domestic environment would only lead to destruction with two of the most temperamental beings in all England.

"A man who conducts experiments on his own dog, no matter what the outcome." Emma and Sherlock were face to face, arguing.

Emma watched him as he spoke, and saw a different emotion overcome him, "A woman who does what she wants no matter what people think. Who thinks that love can happen to everyone when in actuality it truly does not."

Emma scoffed, as Holmes got even closer to her, "I do believe in love, I believe in everything that I have experienced, unlike some oth-"

Watson sat, looking at the two deranged people arguing on the table. But as Holmes interrupted Emma's statement by grabbing the back of her head and kissing her with as much force as they'd both exerted in the dispute, he ripped the napkin from his shirt, threw it on the table top in defeat.

Holmes pulled away and stepped back quickly, leaving a stunned Emma in front of him, her eyes wide. He looked away, and if you looked closely (which Emma was at this moment) you could see a red rise to his cheeks.

Just when Watson thought Emma was about to yell at him, she jumped towards him, rapping her arms around him and kissing him again. But from the surprise weight from Emma, Holmes lost his balance and they both fell from the table and crashed into a table full of desserts. Whip cream, pies, cakes, icing covering them both as they looked at each other and Emma started laughing harder than she ever has before. Holmes held a smirk upon his face, a mischievous smirk.

Emma sat up, picked the clumps of cake up from her arms. She laughed at the bunch of whip cream in Sherlock's hair and his face looked as if someone just threw a pie in it. She reached over and wiped the cream from his eyes.

"Holmes, Emma..." Watson came over to them, pulling them both up, looking at them as if he were scolding his children, "You two are a disaster, we can't ever go anywhere nice without you getting us removed from the property."

Holmes smirked, putting on that classic Sherlock look, "Now, Watson, why would you _ever _believe anything otherwise?"

* * *

Emma sat asleep on Holmes' chair, her legs scrunched up underneath her arms curled around her body trying to escape from the cold air.

Holmes was looking through a sketchbook that he may or may not have taken out of Emma's bag once she'd fallen asleep. He couldn't help himself. As he looked through each page he gained a respect for Emma as an artist, not many women had the talent she had. She had a special skill for still-life scenes, but had a unique knack for fantasy, he noticed. Holmes had seen many drawings of the man whom he knew little of, Thaad was his name, and the daughter, Meribelle. There were several at the beginning but as he flipped through the pages the faces of her loved ones seemed to lessen until there were none left whatsoever. It was apparent that she was very fond of the male and female bodies. Some of the drawings made him laughed internally, some actually threatened tears as he felt the emotion she was trying to portray.

There were hundreds, every page was filled, and it was very clear that this was Emma's passion.

Mrs. Hudson thudded in quite unexpectedly, "Mr. Holmes, there's a man at the door asking to speak with Miss Gitali."

"Who is it?" He asked.

"I'm not sure, sir, he said he was an old friend of hers." Holmes stood, placing the sketchbook down and walked down the steps.

Standing at the door, was an old man, in his fifties or sixties, clad in a black suit and a fedora atop his head. He held a cigarette in one hand, bringing it up to his mouth lazily and inhaling. His skin like leather.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes suspicious.

"Yes, is there an Emma Gitali present in this residence?" He spoke with a rough, worn, and scratchy American accent. Sherlock studied him.

He was a piano player, the way his back was slightly haunched over. He had years of vocal damage, most likely caused by tobacco abuse. He had a certain odd quirk about him that Holmes couldn't quite put his finger on, and couldn't tell if he was a threat or not, he'd have to be weary.

"Who are you?"

"My name is, uh, Tom Waits. I'm a friend of Emma's," he said.

"How do you know her?"

"Well, as you can probably tell I'm an American. Originally from New York actually, beautiful state. Any who, Emma and her family visited New Yor-"

"Who's at the door, Sherlock?" Emma asked tiredly, walking down the steps. Once she reached the bottom, her eyes widened and a smile grew on her face.

"Tom!" She exclaimed and threw her arms around him Sherlock's eyes narrowed when he spotted the man's hands rap around her waist tightly and he picked her up. "What are you doing here in London?"

"Oh, I seem to recall someone telling me to come visit you someday, and you know how these London Nights bring out the wolf in me." Tom said, Emma smiled.

"Well I'm very glad you found me, though I actually live in the apartment next to this one." She japped her thumb to the left. "Oh! This is Sherlock Holmes, he's a good friend of mine." Sherlock nodded once to him and Tom tipped his hat.

"Now, where's that lil' gal of yours? I've brought her a special gift." And Emma's smile faded.

"She-she's...not with me." Emma half muttered, half spoke in the smallest voice Sherlock had ever seen her speak.

"Oh, is she out with Thaad? That little bastard owes me a poker game." She looked to the floor, Sherlock watched as her calm eyes turned dark with woe. He felt a need to comfort her, in some way. He set his hand on her shoulder.

"I think we should go out for a drink, Tom. Sherlock, would you like to come?" Emma looked up at him quickly, and he shook his head.

"Thank you, but I'm quite fine here. But I would prefer to have a word with you for a moment though," Sherlock said, an uncomfortable feeling settling upon him and he added, "in private." Emma nodded.

"I'll be right back down Tom, you can wait in the study if you want." Sherlock followed her up the stairs into his room.

"What is it, Sher--"

"I don't trust him."

Emma closed her mouth, rolling her eyes. "You don't trust anyone, Sherlock."

"That's not true, I trust my instinct. And it's telling me that that man down there is not one to trust." Sherlock spoke with confidence behind his words.

"I know him, Holmes, he's a good man. A good friend." She hardly ever called him Holmes, and he didn't like the way she said it either.

"How come he doesn't know of your past?"

Emma sighed, "Because--"

"And how is it that I do not know either?" Emma couldn't say a word before he interrupted. "And as I suppose you will be informing Mr. Waits of said past," she nodded lightly, "now that you mention it, I am quite parched." Sherlock slipped on a black coat and set his hat over his messy locks.

She sighed, "Okay."

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**Sorry it ended in such an odd way, but that's all I have so far.**

**So, review and let me know how it was.**

**And also, check out my Kirk Lazarus story!**


	9. Chapter Nine

**Hey! I'm so very sorry it's been so long, but I have a new chapter! So thank you for all the reviews and PMs and I hope to get just as many with this next chapter. :)**

**Enjoy?**

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The three got set down at the table of a small partically rundown cafe called 'The Marque' and ordered their drinks.

"Now Miss Emma, tell me what's wrong," Tom suggested and Emma took a breath in.

* * *

"_Meribelle! Where have you gone?" Emma called out, trying to balance a basket of fruit and a bucket of paint in both hands while she searched for her daughter._

"_Here mama!" She heard the high-pitched voice of Meribelle Gitali yell through the hot air. Emma followed the noise to behind a large tree where she discovered her daughter playing in the mud with the neighbor's son, Philipe._

"_No, Phili-pay! You're doing it all wrong!"_

"_You're doing it all wrong, Meri-BELL!"_

_Emma laughed. "Meribelle, Philipe, what am I going to do with the two of you?" They both shrugged and she laughed, "Well come on," she grabbed both their hands, "let's get you two cleaned up."_

_And that was when the first gunshot went off. Then another. And another. Meribelle and Philipe screamed and clung to Emma as she knelt down and picked the two four-year-olds up and ran back behind the tree._

"_Philipe?! Philipe?!" Emma heard Susan, Philipe's mother calling for him in panic. _

"_Mama!" Philipe ran out of her arms and into his mothers and they rushed off into their home, hoping they'd be safe. _

_From behind the tree Emma could not find the source of the gunfire, but there was an attack going on in the village. Meribelle clung onto her for dear life and cried on her shoulder. Emma peaked out around the tree and her eyes searched for Thaad but she couldn't spot him at all._

_A bullet wizzed past her ear and she immediately fell to the ground back behind the tree. She clinched her eyes shut and held back a crying sob._

"_Mommy!" Meribelle cried, and Emma held her closer, rubbing her back and trying to calm her the best she could. Tears began to from in her eyes and they blurred her vision. She kept telling herself everything was going to be alright, and as long as they stayed hidden they could stay safe. But the thought of Thaad was in large bold letters floating in her mind._

"_Emma! Meribelle!" Emma rubbed the tears from her eyes and saw Thaad running towards them and she'd never felt more happier in her entire life. Thaad rapped him arms around the two of them and he kissed Meribelle on the head who now clung onto him._

"_You two alright?" He questioned above the noise, his eyes shooting around left and right_ .

_Emma nodded, "What is going on, Thaad?"_

_He shook his head fiercely, "I don't know."_

"_What do we do? What do we do?" Thaad rest his hand on her cheek calming her._

"_Shh...I want you to stay here with Meri."_

"_And what about you? I'm not letting you go out there, Thaad."_

"_I'm sorry, Emma. I must to protect you. Stay here, please." Thaad ran off leaving Emma cradling Meribelle in her arms. She sat for several minutes before she started hearing screams and blood curtling yells not ten feet from her. _

_She saw the innocent people from the village running for their lives and men clad in blue following them with guns in their hands and curses from their mouths._

_A large boom sounded behind her as a cannon distroyed whatever it landed on. And the last thing she remembers was a large man running towards her, Meribelle's cries, and the intense pain of being knocked out cold._

_

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"When I finally came around half the village was in crumbles and most of the population was dead...I don't know what had saved me from it all, but I sometimes wish it didn't." Emma finished, taking a gulp of her tea.

Tom ran his hand across his face, "That is terribly distressing, dear, I'm so sorry." Emma nodded towards him and looked at Sherlock who was watching her intently.

"Do you know who attacked the village?"

"I do not know, my only guess would be the English, but there wasn't near enough men to be an army of any sort." Sherlock nodded.

"What did-- Thaad do for a living?" Sherlock asked, seemingly forcing out the man's name.

"Why is that important?"

"Oh, the smallest facts are always the most important. Was he working class, got in to the wrong crowd. Gambled maybe?" Emma ran her fingers over the top edge of her glass, making a softly rich sound if you had strong ears in a quiet room.

"Oh, no no, Thaad Gitali was not a working class man. That man was a Scholar." Tom said in confidence.

"A Scholar?" Sherlock looked surprised.

"Such a gifted poet as well, that man wrote the poem that got my wife to marry me." Tom chuckled, Sherlock smirked, a glint in his eye.

"She is desceased, is she not?"

"...Yeah, how did you know?"

"There is an indention in your ring finger where a ring once sat, but too small as you had married young and your hands had grown larger. When Emma explained that her husband had died you subconsiously rubbed your ring finger." Tom sat dumbfounded and looked at Emma.

"Don't worry, Tom, he does that often. And he wasn't my husband Sherlock, we never married."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Whew, it's been a while, but here's another chapter, and thank you for all the reviews!**

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After getting back to 221 A, Emma followed Sherlock up to his room because she honestly had nothing other to do.

"What's this?" Emma asked, holding up a leather ball.

"Rugby ball." Sherlock said, looking back down at a gun he was tinkering with.

Emma's soft laugh erupted in the thick air, "You play rugby?"

"No. Watson enjoys the spot well enough though." She tossed the ball up and caught it in her hands several times.

"It sure is a heavy thing, very danger--" She paused for a moment, looking out the window. Sherlock looked at her curiously, "I bet you I can make it land on the top of that building right there." Emma pointed to the building across the street. Holmes scoffed.

"Impossible. The building is far too tall for someone with as weak muscles as you to throw it and it land on the top." Sherlock said with a hint of arrogance.

Emma walked towards him, "I think you need to stop examining things and just have some fun."

"I hardly constitute throwing rugby balls out a window entertaining."

Emma scoffed, "Come on, you can teach me the aerodynamics of how far and how hard to throw this ball or...I can just throw it as hard as I can and see what happens."

* * *

There's a certain feeling people experience when they love someone so dearly that they will do anything in their power to keep them out of harms way. They would take a bullet for them. And Sherlock had come to the conclusion that he did not love Emma, certainly not after she broke out the window of the apartment household across the street not ten minutes ago. No, he did not love her, he was merely infatuated by her, even a tad obsessed the more he thought on it.

That kiss he gave her at the Royale, nothing but an impulsive act of his over-tired, overly agitated state. He's convinced himself that it was nothing more than that, and nothing was meant by it. And nothing was meant by her kissing him a second time as well.

Sherlock did not believe in love, not anymore. And Emma was just an obsession of the moment. Within a month or so, she'll be out of his mind and not a memory left. And why she was still here, in his home, was unknown to him, but he wasn't exactly complaining.

She was playing a game of chess with Watson. Or rather he was playing a game of chess whilst Emma was getting distracted my the urge to re-arrange the pieces on the board to resemble a more "logical" ground placement plan, though Sherlock knew she was just arranging them in un-suitable pairs. IE the Queen with a knight, the King with the Bishop. That was one thing he admired about Emma, her ability to make anything less dull and boring than it already is.

Sherlock smiled slightly at Watson's frustration with her. But there was a certain sudden knock on the door before some entered. It just so happened to be Ms. Hudson escorting a red faced hefty woman.

"Mr. Holmes, this is Miss. Allene Dermott, she's come here for help." Holmes stood, beckoning the woman to sit down where he once sat. She slowly walked across the room and sat down. She brought a light-blue hanker-chief to her face and dabbed her eyes.

"What is the matter, Madame?" Sherlock asked, glancing over at Emma who watched the woman with sad eyes.

"Please, sir, my children 'ave been kidnapped!" She sobbed with a cockney accent. Sherlock thought for a moment.

"Can you tell me everything you know?" Allene nodded.

"It was three days ago, my twins Eli and Elizabeth were outside in our yard playing, and I was on the porch knitting scarves for the coming winter." He raised an eyebrow, winter was in eight months. Obviously not an extremely stable woman in the mind. "And I went inside to get a glass of water to come back out and they were gone, not even a single sign of the them!" Allene began to sob uncontrollably and Emma suddenly rushed over to her.

"Hey, hush now, it's alright. We'll help you." She rubbed her back, Allene looked up at her and stopped crying. How odd, Sherlock thought, Emma has a peculiar talent of comforting people.

"Miss Dermott, has there been any odd occurrences in the past month or so? Anything at all?" Sherlock questioned.

She thought for a moment, "Well, now that ya mention it, there was this odd man that came to me door step one evening a few weeks ago. Scary fellow, asking for directions. I didn't really think much of it."

"What did the man look like?"

"He was older, no hair, several wrinkles, and his nails—ugh his nails had to be at least three inches long!" Sherlock noticed Emma tense up. "And he talked in a very odd high pitched accent that I didn't recognize. I thought he was in town for the circus."

"Where did he ask you directions for?"

"Oh, let me think...I think it was Darenger Street...yes, that sounds right." Emma's eyes widened but she kept silent and Sherlock didn't question it.

"Thank you, Ms. Dermott. We will do our very best to find your children and get them safely to you." She nods and pulls out and envelop, giving it to Emma as she stands and leaves.

Emma opens it. Two pound sheets and a photograph of her and her two small children. As he was looking at the photo it began shaking as Emma's hand grew unstable. He looked up at her. Tears were forming in her eyes.

"They're so young," she said quietly. She set the papers down on the table, "Excuse me." Emma stood and walked out of the room. Holmes breathed in a sigh and looked at Watson who gave him a stern look.

"What?"

"You know what."

"No, I haven't a clue." He grabbed the picture and looked at it closely, "I've seen these two children, regular trouble-makers in the least. Probably ran off somewhere and got lost."

"Well we're getting paid to locate these two children, so we best get looking for them." Watson stood, slipping on his hat, "And I suggest you find Miss Gitali before she get herself lost, she's good at that."

Sherlock followed Watson out the door and he walked down the steps. He slipped out the door and saw Emma sitting on the stone steps, leaning against the railing.

"May I?" He asked, standing next to her. She only nodded and he sat next to her. There was a silence between the two for several moments.

"You're going to find them, right?" Emma asked.

"Of course we are." She smiled slightly.

"I hope you and John find them. It would be terrible if they were not found."

You know, it won't be solely Watson and I on this case. I found another individual worthy of keeping around."

"Oh, who?"

"She doesn't live far from here, she has a very strong eye as well." Emma had a questioning look on her face. "And she is sat right next to me."

She smiled, "Really?" Sherlock nodded, "Well, we better get started then, shouldn't we?"


End file.
